Chapter 11 Chase
Chase
Or at the beach.
Or doing literally anything that didn’t involve reviewing asset distribution spreadsheets with a divorcing couple who couldn’t agree on who got the vintage wine collection.
“Mr. Sullivan has prepared a proposed division,” Catherine Morrison said, nodding at me with the kind of professional warmth that meant don’t screw this up. “Chase?”
I pulled out the spreadsheet I’d spent four hours on last night after leaving Barbacks. I hadn’t walked in the door to my apartment until 12:30. Still, I worked until 3 a.m. because sleep was optional for recently minted attorneys.
I stood and distributed copies to everyone at the table. “I’ve divided the assets into three categories: marital property, separate property, and contested items. Starting with the wine collection . . .”
I walked them through all of it.
The wine. The art. The time-share in Clearwater that neither of them wanted but both refused to let go of out of principle.
The boat. The vintage car collection. The wedding china that Mrs. Henderson swore was a family heirloom but Mr. Henderson had receipts proving they’d bought at Pottery Barn a year after their wedding.
I was running on coffee and the memory of a solid night’s sleep, but I was good at this. By the time the meeting wrapped, both Hendersons were nodding. They weren’t happy—nobody was happy in a divorce—but they appeared satisfied, like they’d each gotten a fair shake.
“This is acceptable,” Mrs. Henderson said, which from her was a glowing endorsement.
Mr. Henderson nodded. That was all we’d get out of him.
Catherine walked them out while Bob stayed behind.
“Good work today,” he said, which was the highest compliment I’d ever received from him.
“Thanks.”
“Really, Chase. That was excellent. Those two have been at each other for months.” He gathered his papers, then paused. “You finished the Morrison deposition prep?”
“Almost. I need another few hours—”
“And the Patterson brief?”
“Still working on it.”
“The Kowalski mediation documents?”
“Those are . . . in progress.”
Bob’s expression soured. “Chase, those are all due Monday.”
“I know.”
“Can you get them done?”
“Yes.” I would have to pull another all-nighter, maybe two. “I’ll make it happen.”
“Good.” He headed for the door, then stopped. “You did excellent work today. We’re lucky to have you.”
Then he left.
I sat there in the empty conference room, staring at the spreadsheet in front of me, Bob’s compliment still echoing in my ears right alongside the reminder of everything I still had to do.
You did excellent work. Now do more work.
That was the pattern.
Do good work, get more work.
Excel at something, and get rewarded with an even heavier load.
Prove you can handle it, and they’ll see how much more you can handle before you break.
I was so tired.
I gathered my papers—the ones I’d need for the rest of my weekend that wasn’t a weekend because I’d be spending it in this office or in my apartment that might as well be an extension of this office—and headed back to my converted sunroom.
The building was quiet on Saturdays. There was no Ashley smacking gum at the front desk. There were no phones ringing. It was just me and the hum of the air conditioning.
I slumped back in my chair and stared at the ceiling.
“A weekend.” I almost laughed.
When was the last time I’d had one of those? One where I didn’t work? Where I did something for myself?
I couldn’t remember.
Hell, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept past eight a.m.
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose.
And immediately saw crystal blue eyes.
Electric blue, the kind that looked like they’d been pulled from an Irish sky, bright and sharp and impossible to forget even though I’d only seen them twice.
Then I saw a tuft of auburn hair that caught the light and looked like fire.
The freckles scattered across a nose and cheeks and bare, rounded shoulders like someone had painted them there on purpose.
I let my mind wander, and my thoughts filled with the lilt of an accent that sounded like ice cream melting on my tongue—sweet and smooth and impossible not to crave.
His guinea pig. That’s what he’d called me.
Despite the exhaustion and the stack of work and the fact that I was sitting in my office on a Saturday morning instead of anywhere else, I smiled.
He had no reason to be nervous around anyone but had stood at my table and fidgeted with that towel and rambled about plantains like he didn’t know what else to say.
I’d chalked it up to opening night jitters, but maybe . . . just maybe . . . he’d been as affected by seeing me as I’d been by seeing him.
Or maybe I was reading too much into it.
I never did that with work, but when it came to my personal life, I could overthink with the best of them.
Maybe he was just being professional.
Maybe the lingering had been him waiting for feedback on the food and nothing more.
But he’d smiled when he recognized me.
That had to mean something.
Didn’t it?
The Patterson brief stared back at me. I had less than forty-eight hours to finish it, plus the Morrison deposition prep, plus the Kowalski mediation documents.
I could work straight through.
Or I could take a break.
Then my addled mind saw both of the Morrisons glaring from the doorway.
They weren’t actually there, of course, but the ghost of their disapproval haunted every corner of the office.
So, rather than chasing dreams of a tasty dinner and an even tastier bar owner, I settled into my chair and forced myself to focus.